


Four Weeks to Stay

by benedictedcumberbatched



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Between Episodes, Between Seasons/Series, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Light Angst, Mild Smut, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-25 22:39:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1665116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benedictedcumberbatched/pseuds/benedictedcumberbatched
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock spends a few weeks with Molly after the fall and things happen between them before he leaves. However, Sherlock is not completely gone from Molly's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Month is too Short to Say Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Stay](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/51005) by Rihanna. 



> Nothing belongs to me. Everything belongs to Sir ACD, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC.

As far as months went, this was one of the most difficult she had been through. Each day that passed was a finely woven thread of lies, of grief, of loss, and of anger that only deepened and thickened. Time had essentially stood still with only the rising and setting of the sun and the growing stack of dishes in the sink to mark its passage. The lies continued to deepen to the point where even she began to believe them. They were necessary though because while Sherlock Holmes had taken his life, Molly Hooper was keeping him alive.

It had taken them a week to reach some sort of understanding about their current --but temporary-- situation. He hadn’t anticipated staying longer than a night, maybe two at the most; however, eight days in and he was going stir crazy. Molly helped when she could, continued to sneak small body parts out for him in hopes of staving off his boredom and sparing her flat from any intensive damage. They agreed he would stay on the couch at night if he chose to sleep.

Two weeks in and they had found a routine. They still bickered and fought and there were still many instances where she would storm from the flat or lock herself in her bedroom until one of them calmed down. But they were able to cohabitate better. It was by the end of the second week that Molly began waking up early in the morning to find Sherlock sleeping soundly beside her. Some mornings she would catch herself curled into him seeking warmth in her sleep from the blanket hog that was Sherlock Holmes, her head on his chest before rolling over and away from him. The motion always roused him slightly and Molly missed the smile he gave. She always woke up with blankets covering her though.

By the third week, domesticity had taken over and their whatever-it-was took on a new face. Molly had never seen Sherlock so relaxed, so at ease with everything, and she found herself wondering what happened to the old Sherlock. He was still in there of course; she got the occasional glimpse of him when she walked through the door at night or in the early hours of the morning and saw him waiting up, poring over scattered files of Moriarty’s network and determining who to go after first. She knew he kept pushing back Mycroft’s determination to get him out of the country as soon as possible and while Sherlock agreed with him, he wanted to have all his ducks in a row before he did. 

It was in the third week that he had kissed her. She had stared at him in shock when he pulled away, opening his mouth to question if that was not good before Molly grabbed him by the sides of the dressing gown she had nicked from 221 B one day while John was out cold. She crashed her lips against his, his hands automatically wrapping around her waist and pulling her closer to him. She moved from his lips and stood on tiptoe to reach his neck. The groan that she worked forth from him made her toes curl. He gripped her hips tighter as he gasped. He slipped his hand into hers before pulling her toward their shared room.

As the door closed behind them the silence took over and all he could focus on was Molly. Her red, plump lips that he cursed his very existence for ever thinking were too small for her face. Her shining brown eyes that stared at him longingly. He was gentle this time as he took half a step toward her and rest his hand against her cheek. She closed her eyes and leaned into the large hand against her face. The air between them changed. While it still crackled with tension, there was a cool calmness that had settled over them, as if a dimmer switch had been turned and the bright, blinding light that led them to the room had been dulled to a warm, kindling glow.

Sherlock tilted his head slightly and slowly captured Molly’s lips. He liked dancing and the slow waltz of their mouths and eventually tongues was one he was quite enjoying. The hand against her cheek slipped slightly, his thumb finding her rising pulse, the steady beating of her heart and the flow of her blood egging him onward. His other hand slipped under the hem of her shirt. He had never known how soft and smooth Molly’s skin was.

Her knees buckled slightly as his hand rose and brushed over the swell of her breast. She pulled away, leaving a confused Sherlock as she did, and sat on the edge of her bed before staring him in those impossible eyes as she drew her shirt over her head and deposited it on the floor. Sherlock’s mouth ran dry and he swallowed hard before following suit and pulling the t-shirt he had become accustomed to wearing off. 

Sherlock climbed onto the bed and hovered over Molly, his arm shaking with the strain of holding himself up. It wasn’t until he felt her hands press on his shoulder blades that he finally lowered himself to her. He palmed her breast, massaging it as he kissed her slowly. He groaned as her fingers dug into the skin of his back and kissed her more feverishly. 

Molly gasped as his lips attacked her neck with bruising kisses. As much as she didn’t look forward to attempting to conceal the love bites he was sure to leave, she reveled in the idea of being marked by him. Her hands shook as they slid around his sides and came to rest at the waistband of his pajamas trousers. He pulled back slightly as she pushed down on his trousers, watching her swallow as his erect manhood was sprung free, revealing foregone pants. He wiggled his legs free of their confines. 

Sherlock reciprocated with Molly’s work trousers before lowering back to her and taking up her lips with a renewed eagerness. His hand slid down across her stomach before coming to a stop right where she wanted him. He kept his hand still, but continued to kiss her. With a frustrated groan, Molly lifted her hips, creating the friction she craved between her slit and his penis. 

With a low laugh Sherlock pressed her hips back to the mattress and slid his hand further south. His fingers danced over her clit before parting her folds and sinking his forefinger into her. Molly’s strangled gasps and moans encouraged him as he added a second finger. He worked her to the brink before a kiss at his neck and a tug on his hair redirected his attention.

With a low growl, Sherlock withdrew his fingers before shifting and positioning himself at her entrance. But he hesitated, looking at her strained but eager eyes. With a light kiss to his neck, Molly tilted her hips up. Sherlock entered her slowly, watching Molly’s expression with rapt curiosity as he filled her core, pausing every so often to allow her to adjust to him.

Then he began to move, slowly at first, kissing and sucking and nipping at her neck. Molly’s hands grabbed at the sheets before finding there wasn’t enough leverage and gripped his shoulders tight. The pain of her nails forced a groan from him. Sherlock reached down and lifted one of her legs aside, opening her wider as his thrusts quickened. Deeper and deeper he pushed Molly’s gasps and moans mixed with his own and only fueled him. It was like he was a tightly coiled spring with vast amounts of pressure holding him back. All it took was one little nudge, a nip of her teeth and the breathy sigh of his name in his ear for that spring to release.  
With a growl he braced himself more securely, his large hands gripping the headboard until his knuckles had whitened as he picked up speed. Skin slapped against skin; the bed banged against the wall as Sherlock’s hips slammed into Molly’s. Her mouth hung open but no sound emerged as she scrambled to hold on.

Her walls began to tighten around his cock and her moans renewed in earnest. One thrust, two, three later, Molly came, his name spilling from her lips. Sherlock joined her soon after with a strangled moan. His head fell forward to her chest. She brushed his hair off his forehead, saturated with sweat, as they both gasped for air. He pulled out of her and rolled to the side, his head remaining on her chest. He tilted his head back to look at her before leaving a languorous trail of kisses from her lips to her collarbone, reveling in the saltiness of her skin.

\--

It was the fourth week when the phone call came in the early morning. A small bag was packed with the essentials and was waiting by the door. She’d known this day would come eventually but after the events of the prior weeks, she had grown accustomed to his company. They were curled up on the couch together not saying a word when the text came through. Neither moved for a moment, both knowing what was within it.

With a simple kiss to the top of her head, Sherlock untangled himself from her and made for the door. She followed him, watching with her arms crossed protectively across her chest, as he got readied in his disguise. Once dressed he held open his arms and she instantly went into them. A muffled word, _stay_ , vibrated against his chest. His arms tightened around her.

She drew back slightly before tangling her fingers in his shorter hair and drew him in for a kiss, repeating the word against his lips. He pulled away, grabbed his bag, gave her a sad smile before kissing her forehead, and exited the flat.

Molly scrambled for the windows as she watched Sherlock climb into the car and it pulled away. She stayed there for a few more minutes before returning to her room. She pulled Sherlock’s pillow toward her, burying her face in it as she finally allowed herself to feel his death.

\--

It wasn’t until four weeks later that she allowed herself to cry again, as she stared at the two pink lines on the white stick in her hand.


	2. You Plus Me Equals Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always nothing belongs to me.
> 
> Many many thanks to MizJoely for looking this over for me and convincing me to keep writing it when I wanted to give up and delete the chapter.

_Leaves and twigs crunched underfoot as he ran. Clutched in his hand, the white back of a piece of paper caught the agent’s lights as they tracked him. He could hear the helicopter overhead and it was likely they had some sort of heat sensing camera focused on him. He had managed to evade them for so long, surveying their comings and goings only to slip up one night while he was hiding. There was no escaping the Serbian branch any longer so he fell to his knees. His blue-green eyes hidden behind a veil of long, dirty hair stared down at the picture of the smiling woman with warm brown eyes and the tiny face of the two-year-old girl with blue eyes and curly deep chestnut hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispered before shoving the picture inside his trouser pocket and raising his hands in surrender._

\--

_Running, so much running and hiding; hiding in plain sight, hiding in alleys, behind burnt out cars, and in crumbled buildings. Three months into his mission was when the first picture came with a letter. Her loopy handwriting was familiar and he found himself running his fingers over the lines, feeling the spots where she pressed the pen a bit harder into the paper or where she had hesitated slightly. The letter was entirely her, and with a slight hesitation, the paper crinkling slightly under his fingertips, he raised the pages to his nose and inhaled. It was faint, but it was there, the clean, lemon scent of the soap she used after work. The metallic ping of rainwater falling into a rusty pail his only source of music as he read her words by the light of the battery powered lantern he had procured._

‘I didn’t know whether or not to tell you, to be honest. I’ve spent the past three months trying to figure it out myself and while Mycroft thinks it will distract you from your tasks at hand, I couldn’t bear to keep it from you any longer. So I’ve enclosed something for you. Keep it safe. Keep yourself safe. While we’re on the topic of things I never said to you and should have…

‘I love you.  
Molly’

 _The image was grainy at best but even he, with his limited knowledge of the subject, knew what he was looking at. Regardless, he turned the picture over._ ‘You’re going to be a father.’

\--

_“No!” he shouted, bolting upright into a sitting position. He ran a shaking hand over his face, wet with sweat. His hands scrambled along the thin blanket and threw it off himself. He got up, the dirty cot squeaking as his weight moved off it. He paced, pacing kept him focused, pacing kept him calm, but he felt anything but calm. He closed his eyes and took a couple deep breaths._

_Another decrepit building. He was getting close though. He should be able to bring down this strand of the web. He ran a hand through his longer dirty hair before glancing over at the bag he had been using. He could still hear her screams in his head, her pleas, and red blossoming on the fabric of her shirt. Shaking his head, he crossed over to the bag and wrenched it open. There was a small stack of letters, one every month or so since the first one. But they were thick, keeping him informed of anything and everything. But the latest letter, some three months after the first, he received two new pictures._

_He drew them out of the envelope, their edges slightly stained from whatever he had on his fingers that day, but the images crisp. He felt a small, sad smile tug at his lips; it felt so foreign to smile, as he took in one. She was beautiful; she always had been even though he had been horrible to her about it. She looked best natural, her hair down from that tight ponytail she tended to wear it in, and always in bright clothes. She was the sun that pierced through the darkened windows of his mind palace, the warmth of a fire he wished he had some nights. Her face was rounder, her hair appeared to be healthier, but it wasn’t just those things that made him smile, it was the way her hand rested on her round stomach. He knew the writing on the back so much that it had been burned into his eyelids and he saw it each night before he went to sleep, or tried to sleep when he allowed it._

Wish you were here – Love, Molly

_He slid her picture back into the envelope and turned his attention to the other one. This one had changed so much since the first one three months before. He could recognize what he was looking at for the most part. His finger, dirt embedded under his nails to the point where he thought they might be permanently stained black, traced along the curve of a nose, over the chin, and back up and around the small roundness of the head. He could sort of see the shape of the lips and smiled when he recognized his own unique feature. His tired eyes squinted at the grainy image and tried to deduce it. Frowning though when he came up with nothing but seeing his own and her features in the tiny face, he elected to flip over the picture._

It’s a girl!

\--

_He dove through the doorway as a bullet lodged itself into the concrete where his head had been moments before. Leaning back against the wall for a moment, he took a deep breath before lowering his chin toward his chest and resuming running. He had been working on this branch of the network for weeks, stakeout after stakeout. Some nights had produced better results than others and on those slower nights, he would find himself running his finger along the familiar edges of the last picture he had received. Letters had been arriving less frequently as of late and he couldn’t help but wonder whether she had forgotten, become busy with preparations, or…no, he would have known. He was in contact once a month with his brother, he would have been able to tell if something had gone amiss back in London. As the sound of footsteps faded, he slowed his pace and began to backtrack. He had to get back to his safe house before the found him again. It would be time to leave this city and move onto the next._

_An hour later, as he turned on the battery powered lantern and threw off his dirty coat, he spotted, crisp and white, an envelope waiting for him on the cot. It had been another three months since he had received news. The anxiety and fear bubbling just below the surface but never allowed to be expressed. He brushed a hand through his longer than normal hair, caked with dirt as she ran his fingers over the carefully written letters of his new alias. They had been careful, never formally addressing anything and always distributed through people his brother had tailing him from a lengthy distance. His brother thought he didn’t know but obviously, even after his death, dear big brother still hadn’t figured out who he was._

_Turning the envelope over, he slid his finger underneath the flap and tore it open. Three photos fell out, but there was no letter. Brow furrowed, he set aside the envelope and picked up the pictures. His jaw dropped as he took in the series of events. The first picture showed her with her large belly, smiling at whoever it was that was taking the image. Without even being there, he could tell she was just glowing. He turned over the picture and smiled at her neat handwriting_ – Molly, 40 weeks. _Setting it aside, he took the second one. He felt a tightening in his chest as he saw her face screwed up with concentration and pain, her hand clutching tight to John’s. He could just see her knees drawn up, as she appeared to be pushing. He ran his knuckles over his sternum, trying to dislodge the tightness that had formed there. It should have been him beside her, allowing her to spew vitriol at him. He flipped it over but it didn’t have any writing on the back, it clearly didn’t need it._

_It was the third picture that had him pausing. Her eyes, shining with many emotions, stared up into the camera as she gave that small, shy smile. In her arms, wrapped in a white blanket and a little white and pink striped hat, was his daughter. Her eyes were closed and even he, in his minimal knowledge of infants, knew that her eyes would appear blue at first but he wondered whether they would change to his strange eyes or to her mother’s warm brown. She had a dusting of dark hair peeking out from under the hat. Her lips were just like his, something he had noticed even in the ultrasounds. He turned it over and smiled sadly at the inscription._

Wish you were here, daddy – Love, Abigail Violet Hooper (3.4 kg, 48 cm) and Mummy. 

\--

_After Abigail’s birth, the letters slowed even more. He couldn’t blame her for it, she had her hands full with a newborn and he couldn’t imagine it was easy on her own. Part of him was grateful for the lack of information, if only because he was able to focus on the task at hand rather than wondering whether his daughter was meeting all her milestones and length and weight markers. He probably would have been a horrible father anyway, running experiments on her soiled nappies, dashing off to crime scenes with Abigail nestled in her front facing baby carrier, his coat buttoned up around her to keep her warm. He could hear Lestrade and John’s voices in those moments, scolding him for bringing an infant to a crime scene. But those were thoughts he had in private, when sleep deprivation began to take its toll and he could no longer stave off a few hours rest._

_It was one year later, after a particularly long stake-out on the Serbian branch. His eyes felt like sandpaper, his hair long and dirty. What he wouldn’t give for a shower and a shave, a hot cup of tea waiting for him next to his chair like it used to be. Shaking his head as he wedged through the mostly blocked off lean-to he had constructed from whatever he could find nearby. It wasn’t the nice abode but it was all he could manage. He was so close, so close to finishing this, to ending the network and returning home to John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Baker Street, to Molly and their daughter. He tried not to use too much light while he was hiding here, but he turned on the lamp and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the crisp white envelope waiting for him._

_He sat down, ruffling his hair and cringing at the greasy feeling of his fingers when they came away from his scalp. He tore open the envelope and pulled out the small stack of photographs. Like the one announcing Abigail’s birth, there was no letter enclosed. Smiling sadly, he turned over the pictures and began to shuffle through them._

_Abigail sleeping soundly in her cot. Abigail smiling up at the camera. Abigail reaching for someone. John holding Abigail, it was simply amazing that he didn’t figure it out then. Abigail sitting up on her own, rolling over, standing by holding onto the table, standing on her own, and walking all in quick succession. He couldn’t help but laugh when he saw the next one, Abigail, her dark brown curls plastered to her forehead by bright yellow frosting, her hands smearing it on the tray of her high chair as she beamed up at the camera, her few teeth flashed. It was the last picture however, that made him pause and hold that one singular moment before him, memorizing it, storing it in his mind palace. He traced over the faint lines on her face, the way the corner of her eyes crinkled when she smiled, the way she held Abigail tight as they both stared into the camera. Abigail’s hand was outstretched, as if she were reaching for someone just out of view._

_A twig snapped outside his lean-to. He had been idle for too long. He quickly switched off the lantern but it was too late for that. He knew they would have figured out that he had broken into their strong hold. The beams of flashlights shone through the cracks between the branches and he sat still, slowly tucking the photographs with the others, but putting the one of mother and daughter into his coat pocket. He wanted that close at hand. He cursed under his breath as a piece of wood cracked as something struck it. He took off, diving out of his shelter and ran._

\--

_With each beat of a fist, that image flashed before his eyes. Would he see her again? Would he even meet Abigail? His jacket had long since been removed, but that photograph, hastily shoved into his trouser pocket, practically burned against him. It kept him grounded though, kept him focused, even as his captor reached for the pipe. Now was his chance. He had all the information he needed. She had been on the receiving end of his unruly thoughts before, but this was his meal ticket, the one thing he needed to do to make the guard snap._

_He had forgotten about the other guard for a moment, but that was okay, he tried to forget about him on a daily basis anyway._

“Now listen to me. There’s an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear. Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes. After all, brother dear, you have two lovely ladies waiting for you at home.”

_In the dim lighting of the room, and despite the pain in his back, shoulders, and sides, Sherlock Holmes smiled._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will be slow for the next couple of months as I am incredibly busy with school until December.


	3. Epilogue - Wait For Me to Come Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How did one introduce their child to the father they had been told about since they were in the womb but had never met? How did one introduce a father to his child a year and a half later?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title of the chapter from "Photograph" by Ed Sheeran
> 
> As always, nothing (except Abigail), belong to me.

Molly paced across her sitting room, Abigail sitting on the floor grabbing and throwing small stuffed animals at her mother with a giggle each time Molly passed by. She quickly turned her mobile over in her hand as she paced, glancing toward the door. She had received the phone call the moment his plane had landed. The nerves bubbled in her stomach making her feel sick. How did one introduce their child to the father they had been told about since they were in the womb but had never met? How did one introduce a father to his child a year and a half later?

Molly spun around, stumbling slightly on the pile of stuffed animals at her feet as a knock came on the door. “Abigail, stay put,” she said to her daughter, who replied by throwing another animal, a bee this time, after her mother with a squeal. 

She stared at the door, her hand hovering over the knob. It had been two long years since he had kissed her forehead and walked away without looking back. Even though she had sent letters and pictures to him every few months and then at Abby’s first year through Mycroft, she never received word back. She figured he was safe if Mycroft kept passing on the missives. She swallowed hard, taking a deep breath before peeking through the peephole. The air left her lungs as she took him in, her hand turned the knob and she yanked open the door, allowing it to swing wide and bounce off the stopper. 

His hair was still wet; small strands of a recent cutting of his gorgeous curls were still stuck to the side of his neck. There was a stiffness with which he held himself, more so than she ever remembered. He had always been at ease in his own skin, dominating and owning any room he walked into. But now he seemed closed in on himself, his hands tucked neatly into the pockets of his long coat, his eyes downcast until the door opened.

“Hello, Molly,” he said quietly, raising his eyes, his lips quirking into a small smile.

“Hello, Sherlock,” she replied, her voice choked as she stepped aside and let him into the entryway.

She closed the door after him, wringing her hands together as he turned to wait for her. She bit her lip and with a small squeak, she threw her arms around his middle, burying her face in his chest as she clung to him. Sherlock winced as her hands hit his back with a bit more force than he figured she was capable of but he didn’t let it register to her. His scent was so familiar, so enveloping as she felt him wrap his arms around her and hold her close. “You’re really here. I-we’ve-been so worried,” she mumbled, her hands clenching and bunching his coat at his back.

“I’m here. I'm here,” he kept repeating, smoothing her hair as he held her.

Molly pulled back slightly, her arms still around him. “Do you want to see her?” she asked quietly, smiling nervously as she heard another squeal of delight from her daughter in the next room.

Sherlock looked down at her, fear etched in his eyes for a brief moment before the cool impassiveness returned and he nodded. Molly reluctantly drew back and led the way, Sherlock close behind her.

Abigail looked toward the doorway as her mother entered. She reached up, her little hands making grabbing motions before she clambered to her feet and began to toddle over. Sherlock entered behind and the little girl, with bright blue-green eyes and warm, curly brown hair looked at the newcomer inquisitively. Molly crept over to her chair and curled up in it, watching the scene unfold before her.

Sherlock crouched down to kneel on the floor, wincing as he did so. She would ask him about it later but now was not the time. “Hello Abigail,” he said quietly, watching her and waiting.

Abby looked over at her mother. “Mama?” she said in her sweet little voice. Molly glanced at Sherlock, watching his eyes close as Abigail spoke, likely logging it into his mind palace.

“It’s okay, Abby. Do you know who he is?” Molly asked, wondering if all those bedtime stories and pictures she showed Abby would come forward.

Abby walked forward until she was right before Sherlock. Quickly she pointed at him and with a toothy grin, looked at Molly again. “Daddy!”

Molly sagged with relief. Abigail clambered into Sherlock’s lap, grabbing any stuffed animals within reach and began handing them to her father. Sherlock stared intently at Abigail, memorizing her small features, his hands played with her fingers and toes. He had helped create this little girl, a girl he had watched grow up in photographs. He wrapped his arms loosely around her, hugging her to his chest. Sentiment had been something to avoid, but as the memories of the beating he took in Serbia returned, the crack of fists against his ribs, he could remember thinking of Abigail Hooper and her mother. As he cradled the back of Abby’s head, he looked over at Molly. He may not have been there for the past year and a half when Molly likely needed him the most, he may not have been there to see Abigail’s firsts, but he would be there for his girl now, both of them.

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to MizJoely for her encouragement and edits.


End file.
